


Too Old For Spanking

by Crowgirl, potteralda



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Dean's Birthday, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteralda/pseuds/potteralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t think Sam had deliberately picked this hunt to turn Dean’s birthday into a crapfest...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Old For Spanking

Dean is driving back to the motel with dry laundry when the skies open up.

‘Perfect,’ he mutters, flicking the wipers into high, turning on the headlights, and peering forward into the dark grey curtain of water. ‘Just...fucking perfect.’

A driving rainstorm would have been bad enough at the end of this day, spent slogging through swampy woods in search of signs that a rusalka had been by. In the end, Sam was the one who called it: ‘Dean, there’s nothing here. The water’s too dirty anyway.’ Dean had been willing to keep trudging -- determination had turned to doggedness when he fell over the third submerged log -- and Cas never expressed an opinion but, hey, Sam was the brains of the operation so if he said turn back, they turned back.

He didn’t think Sam had _deliberately_ picked this hunt to turn Dean’s birthday into a crapfest, but it seemed to be happening nevertheless. Hell, he didn’t even think Sam _remembered_. 

When they were kids, Dean had always made sure Sam had a little somethin’ on his birthday. Hell, Sam was only a kid -- wasn’t his fault his life was full of crazy. But -- Dean’s didn’t seem to matter so much. In January, what the hell were they going to do anyway? Have a barbecue? Go to the beach? And nine times out of ten they were on their way from one place to another and had no time to spare from travel. When he got older, John had seemed to want to ignore the whole thing; every second year or so, he’d seem to remember and a bottle of whiskey would appear on Dean’s nightstand -- if John was in town. 

The wind hurls rain over the Impala’s windscreen and Dean curses, yanking the wheel to keep the car straight. 

Yeah, fine, it’s his birthday. So what. It wasn’t yesterday and it won’t be tomorrow.

He pulls up at the four-way stop before the motel. If he turns right, there’s a bakery not far down that road that he’d given the once-over earlier. Their sign claimed **Best Raspberry Pie in the Tri-County Area!!!** He had no idea what the other two counties were, but he was willing to give it a shot. Now, though-- For a minute, as he peers up at the stoplight, he thinks the rain is lessening; maybe it was just a quick shower and if he waited for five minutes in the parking lot he could---

With a howl, the wind drives against the car so hard he can actually feel it lurch and the rain blots out his view of the traffic light.

‘Mother _fucker.’_

* * *

He pulls into the motel parking lot, as close to the room door as he can get which isn’t close enough under the pounding rain. The laundry can live in the back seat for the night; if he tries to bring it in now, it’ll be freshly washed again by the time he gets inside.

Dean shoves his keys in his pocket, turns up his collar, and eyeballs the distance between the car and the door. ‘Well, this is gonna suck.’

* * *

There’s water running down his back, down his chest, and into his eyes by the time he ducks under the overhang in front of the door. 

Dean takes a minute to try and smack the worst of it off himself but most of it’s going to take a change of clothes -- and maybe a hot shower because the rain is fucking _cold._ January. What the hell else is he expecting?

He fumbles for the door key and hears Sam inside call, ‘It’s open.’ Well, thank fuck for that because he’s no idea where the goddamned key is and if he doesn’t get these wet goddamned boots off soon he thinks they might--

‘Surprise!’

A blare of tuneless horns and a faceful of sparkling confetti were not what he was expecting.

‘The -- what?’ He stands where he is, just inside the door, staring at Cas and Sam. They’re both wearing little pointed cardboard hats: Sam’s has a bright red bobble on top, Castiel’s a tiny tinny bell with feathers. Sam is grinning at him like a fool, Castiel still blowing some note unknown to music on a crepe paper noisemaker. 

‘Your birthday, dude!’ Sam strides forward and claps him on the shoulder, tugging him into the room and closing the door behind him, closing out the wet and the wind and the cold. Sam starts trying to pull Dean’s soaking jacket off and he’s startled enough to let him. 

‘But you -- we never -- I mean -- it --’ Dean starts trying to protest: against the effort, against the money spent, against the undeniable warmth welling in his chest that’s driving out the cold water along his spine. ‘Sam, it--’

Sam slings an arm around his shoulders. ‘C’mon, man. Don’t make like you forgot.’

‘It...I...’ Dean’s blustering and he knows it and he knows Sam and Cas know it, too. There’s nothing he can _say_ so he slides an arm around Sam’s back and gives his baby brother the tightest hug he can.

When he turns back, Sam discreetly swiping a hand over his eyes, Castiel is standing in front of him with a plate. On it is a large pie, browned crystallized sugar scattered over the lattice crust and Dean can see whole berries and pools of juice between the strips. ‘Sam said you would like this better than a cake,’ Castiel says. There’s even a sign on a toothpick stabbed into the middle of the thing: **Happy Birthday Dean** in Sam’s firm capitals on the back of an index card. Dean can only assume that Castiel is responsible for the design scrolled around the edge since he knows Sam can’t draw worth a damn.

‘Fuck, guys...when’d you get all this?’ Dean takes the plate since it seems to be what Castiel expects. Cas smiles at him and Dean’s heart catches again.

Sam shrugs. ‘Angelic powers are handy.’

‘You didn’t have -- I mean, this--’ Dean starts again and Sam interrupts again.

‘And this goes with it.’ 

Dean puts up a hand automatically as something thumps against his chest and finds a bottle of tequila in his hand: the good stuff, too. 

‘That I got a couple of weeks ago,’ Sam says, grinning when Dean looks up at him. ‘So the pie’s from Cas, that’s from me, and lets get this party started, yeah?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I---’ Past the stupid, childish glow in his chest that he can’t get rid of and the nearly overwhelming desire to hug Sam and Cas at once, Dean is aware that there’s cold water pooled at the small of his back, his boots are slowly soaking through, and the front of his shirt is wet. ‘Can I grab a shower first? I’m melting here.’

‘Yeah, sure--’ Sam takes the pie plate and the bottle from his hands and adds, ‘If you’re gonna do that, I’ll hit the pizza place now. Usual?’

Dean nods, already sitting on the end of his bed to unknot his bootlaces. ‘Grab me some wings?’

Sam makes a face but nods and turns to Cas. ‘Usual, Cas?’

Castiel nods, taking a seat at the end of Sam’s bed and watching Dean pull boots and socks off and stand up to run his belt out of the loops.

Sam pulls his shoes on, tosses the party hat on his bed, and unearths a cheap rain poncho from a pocket of his backpack. Dean bites his lip to keep from laughing aloud when Sam pulls the thing on: it looks like he’s wearing a bright pink condom.

‘Laugh it up, Dean,’ Sam says, shoving his wallet in his back pocket. ‘But you’re not getting anything for Christmas.’

‘Aw, I’m hurt!’ Dean presses a hand over his heart and Sam snorts, ducking out into the rain. The door slams and Dean is acutely aware that he and Castiel are alone. Cas is still watching him, no particular expression on his face.

‘You want a shot?’ Dean uncaps the bottle and gestures to the three glasses on the table. If he’s gonna try this -- and he _knows_ how badly it could end up going -- then he wants some liquor to try it on. _Should’ve asked Sam to get another bottle._

Castiel nods and comes over to the table, taking the glass of nearly colorless liquid and looking at it curiously, holding it to the light.

Dean throws back his own shot and, wincing, says, ‘Don’t think about it too much. Just drink it.’

Castiel sniffs the glass, shrugs, then tosses the shot back with the aplomb of a seasoned drinker. He blinks and swallows hard after, but that’s it. 

‘Like it?’ Dean’s already pouring himself a second and holds out the bottle for Cas.

‘It is -- an interesting taste.’

‘Y’can say that again--’ Dean fills Castiel’s shot glass and taps their two glasses together. ‘Thanks for the pie.’

‘Happy birthday, Dean.’ This time, Castiel doesn’t even blink.

One more shot and Dean will have gone past the level of ‘what the fuck’-ness he needs to try this. He steps closer to Castiel, close enough that he can see the rumple marks in the shoulders of his white shirt where the trenchcoat sits, the wear marks around the knot of the tie, the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that crease together when Castiel smiles. ‘So...uh...there was...there is somethin’ I was...kinda plannin’ to get myself this year.’

‘Yes?’ Castiel isn’t stepping back or moving away; in fact, if Dean’s reading his expression right, he’s _waiting._ The corners of his mouth are pulling up just slightly, just enough to soften his expression, make the blue eyes that can be so harsh seem warm.

 _Oh, fuck it,_ Dean thinks wildly, and leans forward, curling his fingers around the back of Castiel’s neck and giving him possibly the chastest kiss Dean has ever delivered in his life, a mere press of lips. As he’s pulling back, he’s already apologizing: ‘Look, I’m sorry for -- just sort of -- doing that but --’ He rubs his palms along the wet thighs of his jeans. ‘Seriously, Cas, that -- that was something I wanted for a long time--’

‘Really?’ Castiel steps forward, sliding his hand around Dean’s hip. ‘Why did you wait so long?’

‘What? I--’ Whatever Dean had been about to say next -- and he honestly isn’t sure what it was going to be -- is lost in the sharp alcohol tang of Castiel’s tongue licking against the corners of his mouth. Dean gives in with a soundless gasp, sucking on Castiel’s lower lip enough to hurt, then smoothing the spot with his tongue.

When Castiel finally pulls back, he leans his forehead against Dean’s and Dean realises that he’d never thought before about the devastating effect that Castiel’s smile would have close up. ‘I think we have time for a few more before Sam comes back.’

‘Best birthday ever,’ Dean says fervently.

**Author's Note:**

>  _potteralda_ : A little fanfic to celebrate Dean's birthday. 
> 
>  


End file.
